


Demon in the Snow

by Good_Morning_And_Good_Night



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Poor Jack Frost, get back here Jack you need a hug.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:51:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4597017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Good_Morning_And_Good_Night/pseuds/Good_Morning_And_Good_Night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a couple of different conclusions to be gained at Jack's awakening regarding what he is. He woke up in darkness. He can fly. And no one can see or interact with him. Clearly, he must be some manner of demon. Why else would he be trapped in this hellish existence? So Jack comes to the wrong conclusion early on about what he is (evil) and why he's there (to suffer).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dark Realization

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or realities (unless otherwise stated). I do not make money off of this.
> 
> The prompt for this came from an anonymous rotg-kink dreamwidth post.
> 
> This is not betaed. If you see any mistakes, I would love for you to kindly point them out.

When he woke up, he remembered nothing. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. He felt nothing. And then the cold burst in. And the dark. And the harsh pang of loneliness and a new sting of hope. _What if I’m dead_ drifted across his mind as if somebody else thought it and he immediately questioned it. Why would he be dead?

And then he opened his eyes. There was ice above him, transparent enough to see the bright moon above. And the darkness went away, as if somebody started cleaning a filthy window. As he neared the ice, another thought came from the other-him. _How would he break through the ice?_ but it was fainter, much fainter. He attempted to hold onto the other-him but he slipped away like a fish.

Should he have been scared? Was the dark supposed to be scary? Maybe. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He didn’t know his name, didn’t know his past, where he was, why he was there. And he looked up at the moon and it felt like he knew all of a sudden. And then all that information was gone, and he grasped at everything that was thrown at him and the only thing that stopped, turned around and curled around his mind was _Jack Frost_.

Was that his name? Was that supposed to mean something to him? Was that his family? Nobody answered. He shrugged, sat down on the ice (only vaguely realizing that it didn’t feel as cold - as it should have felt?) and decided to take the name as his own. It felt like putting on a sweater, only a badly knit one. It felt scratchy, but it fit. It was like it was his name, but it wasn’t at the same time.

If this was his name, why did it feel like this? Like it didn’t fit?

Leaning back, looking at the stars almost drowned out by the light of the moon, he touched something, and, jerking his hand away and looking over to see what it was. It was a shepherd's staff, his other-him whispered, almost drowned out by the thoughts about his name. Touching it again, he (Jack?) noticed that it frosted over. Picking it up did nothing else to it, but tapping the staff to the ground and other objects frosted them over.

The last thought that Jack heard from other-him was _I like autumn better. Better weather to play in… even if there was more work…_

 

It only took a few people to walk through him for Jack to realize that he wasn’t human anymore. Then what am I? came the question, and no matter how hard he thought, nothing came up. The wind curled around him softly, and Jack raked his mind for any information for what he could be. There was a sliver of a thought clinging to his mind, like the other-him’s memories were erased from his mind. _Angels live in heaven, where everything is good and happy and souls are rewarded for their good deeds, while demons live in hell. Hell is where souls are punished for their terrible actions._

_That’s it. I’m a demon._

 

 


	2. Truth and Dismay

In his time as a demon with the name “Jack Frost” he had travelled on the wind constantly, pulling back on his cold abilities as much as he could. He didn’t want to stay in this hellish world for longer than he had to, so if he repented in some way to the greater being that kept him here (The Moon?) then maybe he could be released to… where was it he wanted to be again? The memories in his mind had deteriorated, leaving him with nothing but his name and the sure felt _belief_ that he was a creature that had done evil in some past life and was now paying for it in this one.

But where was he trying to get to? That had run away at one point when he had circled the globe on his new silent companion, Wind.

It didn’t matter. He was evil and a demon and now he had to show to whoever was watching that he could be good again and return to… wherever he wanted to be in the first place. This was further cemented by the fact that no matter where he went, the cold and snow and frost he brought was unwelcome, causing sickness and famine and _death_. Jack wasn’t showing he could do things better, he was making things _worse_.

But maybe he wasn’t supposed to make things better. Maybe he was meant to suffer like this, unheard, untouched, unseen. The only companion he had couldn’t really touch him and he couldn’t see it(?) and didn’t know if it could hear him. And the theory worked out. Nobody could see him, nobody could hear him, Nobody comforted him as cried out in anguish in the snow, Wind shaking up a storm with how fast it was going, his snow collapsing from the clouds like the big fat tears that slid from his eyes and froze on his cheeks like he was some child crying in the cold and not a damned _demon_ repenting for his old sins.

He had only been here for three damned untouched winters. How many more would he have to endure? How many more until his eternal peace and slumber and whatever drivel was being poured into the ears of the masses that Jack also drank up like an alcoholic and a bottle of beer because _what else was he supposed to believe in?_ Snowflakes? Pieces of frozen water that melted so easily on human’s breaths that nobody cared about except for some lonely scientists with their things of glass and metal?

He had no memories to speak of (save remembering something long ago), he did not sleep and thus had no dreams, his wonder broke the same day he heard the people pray for a shorter winter, more time away from _Jack damned Frost, the demon_ , he only clung to fear and hope. A tentative, flickering hope that was more like a glowing ember that refused to die compared to the monsoon of fear that often clouded him.

What if he never left this hell? What if he never remembered? What if nobody ever heard his voice, saw his agony, his hurting? What if? What if?

 

A few days later Wind seemed tired of his moping and self imposed isolation from human adults and dragged him over to some younger children playing outside in the fall leaves. The corners of Jack’s mouth lifted a little and he decided to play with them, even if they couldn’t see him. A few bits of snow here, a few formed snowballs there, and voila! All he needed was to initiate someone into the fight. There! That kid right there. Packing the snowball a little tighter and blowing on it to make sure it would keep its form he wound up his arm. Jack threw the snowball but as soon as the snowball hit…

“Who threw that!” A shrill voice emanated in the now silent clearing. A tall, lanky woman with an enormous coat on stood from the stump she had been sitting on, her knitting stuffed haphazardly in her bag. “Whoever threw that step up right here and apologize to Jameson!” Nobody moved. “If someone doesn’t confess, everybody will be punished!” Jameson was being slowly pulled inside, his jacket removed and given something warm to drink.

A boy of 12 years was pushed from the crowd, his hands wet with playing in the snow with his bare hands. His eyes were wide with fear and his bottom lip was quivering, his jacket too thin to suppress the shakes wracking across his body.

“Tommy! You know better than throwing snow at other boys, especially since your own mother is sick with the flu! What would she think about this insolent behavior!” She gripped his wrist with her bony hands and pulled him after her into the house, screeching at him all the time. Jack watched on in horror.

And the day that Jack Frost was supposed to have found his special “happy flakes” became a day where Jack pulled himself from any interaction, except for the wind. After all, anything he did made things worse, not better. How would Jack Frost, the demon of snow and cold and ice make anything better?

It was better to pretend he didn’t exist. And easier.

 

 


	3. Friend of a Demon

In time, Jack Frost learned how to hide from humans, how to keep his influence over them to a minimum. There were places that were too extreme for even the most adventurous of humans, such as certain parts of mountain ranges and certain parts of the poles. And the desert, but Jack only had to stay there one night before he fled and never returned to the equator.

He learned to spot signs of life and recognize if they were human before he came even a mile of the life form. Anything resembling human was something to be avoided, especially if he didn’t want to hurt anyone. He stayed in caves, occasionally, but usually just buried himself in the snow he made, staring at the crystals  that didn’t melt on his breath like a normal human’s. Lots of things that happened to humans didn’t happen to him. He wasn’t stuck to the ground, he could fly as high as the wind could go. Cold didn’t affect him but heat affected him double - the only exception being plain old fire. It only felt hot if he touched it.

He didn’t bleed, and maybe the last part was just his paranoid belief, but he thought that maybe his teeth were sharper than a human’s.

He was walking over to a cave’s opening, slumping against the entrance before allowing his magic to whip and crack the air to start condensing so that there could be a big old snowstorm in a few hours. Because while Jack couldn’t not use his magic, he could choose not to use it where there were people around. And he didn’t! He controlled himself, didn’t give into the impulses and urges inside himself to let the blizzard loose in a populated area, where it would probably cause some people to be stuck indoors for a while and for some cars to have accidents from the ice.

It might happen later on, though, since there had to be a balance to the weather. But at least Jack could postpone it a little, let people get ready naturally for the wind ice and snow. Jack stared at the floor of the cave. It was mostly ice at the mouth, but further in there was some stone ground, just sitting there, swinging its legs as if it wasn’t cold. It was getting darker inside. Jack assumed it was because the storm was kicking up.

“Who are you?” Jack assumed wrong. He looked up, spotting a pair of yellow eyes on a black body and almost in the same second he thought it was a human he realized that it couldn’t have been. Too grainy and silky at the same time. But this male could also… see him? Was he a demon as well? Maybe they could get out of hell, together!

“Hello…”Jack stammered out, his tongue tripping on his front teeth and his tongue moving sluggishly with a strange pins and needles feeling running up and down it. The roof of his mouth was dry, he just realized. As well as the inside of his cheeks and the tip of his tongue. It all felt sticky. Jack wetted his lips and mouth and continued a little, feeling intimidated with the fact that there was somebody there that could and would actually listen to him. “Can you see me?”

The other man blinked, and cocked his head as if confusion of who the one in front of him was. “Of course I can. Why wouldn’t I be able to?” He sat down on a shadowy chair that appeared out of nowhere and leaned forward, wanting to know Jack’s reasoning.

Jack leaned back a little, his hands crossing over his chest while his eyes stayed trained on the thing in the chair with golden eyes made with black sand-silk. For a moment his mind strayed too the thought of would sand-silk feel good on the skin? Before addressing the question he was requested to answer. “I don’t know. I never met one of you before. Besides, all humans ignore me. Why wouldn’t you?”

The dark man cocked his head to the right and hummed a short haunting melody, the kind that you hear in haunted houses or in cemeteries on a cold, dark, cloudy night. “Would you like to live with me? It doesn’t seem like you live here and why would you be resting here? Besides, some spiritual interaction could be actually good for me, as long as he isn’t too annoying.” The last part was said to himself, whispered under the breath of a thousand silky strands of fear.

Jack partially shuddered to himself. He didn’t know why he was _wary_ of this man. Maybe he was another demon? That would be interesting. “No thank you. But I would like to know your name.” Jack decided on saying. It wouldn’t do good to be around anyone, even if it was technically one of his kind. He would stop him from being scary to kids but Jack had long ago decided he couldn’t be mean to the children, even if they ignored him.

“As long as you give me yours in return.”

“All right. My name is Jack Frost. But the name doesn’t fit well. I might change it.”

“My name is Pitch Black. I am the Nightmare King.”

 

 


	4. Friendship

Jack met Pitch every other year on his travels, often on the poles, where day and night was a mesh of confusion and harmony. When they were together, they talked about things, random things, anything. But sometimes, they didn’t. Sometimes they just sat there, watching snow fall or rage or settle, watching the aftereffects of the wind as it spun around them like a ballerina. And those days seemed the peacefullest. The ones where Jack felt more… human. More kind, gracious. More than just a simple demon.

Pitch would sit next to him, or in front of him whenever they were together, pulling his bony knees up to his chest and tugging on Jack’s snow to settle around his shoulders, not bothering (or caring) about the cold, but seemingly relishing in the light and brightness the snow offered. Jack became used to making the snow settle on Pitch’s shoulders, hair and back, almost rinsing all of it of its soot and pale grey and darkness.

Jack had reasoned (long ago) that Pitch was also a demon, but also one who didn’t want to be a demon. He was also a demon whose own face had changed, turning it black and bleak and nightmarish. They never talked about being demons, though, and Jack was okay with that. Pitch was also probably ashamed at being a demon, having to cause pain to the children, to the creatures of the earth. Jack also made it a habit to give Pitch a hug every other decade, uncaring for the soot that occasionally sprinkled on his frost-covered clothes, because it brushed off easily, settling into the snow (though it was ominous in the way that it turned the snow to ice within a few hours).

There was only one day that was momentous in their friendship, and it was only because Jack wanted to see his friend some more, to talk to him, to learn some more about him other than the few tidbits (Jack knew that Pitch remembered bits of his past, but it made him sad and they never talked about it; he also knew that Pitch had a sweet tooth, but the last time he tried to take just one sweet from a confectionary store, they closed down soon after because of the rumors of bandits in the next town - fear). It didn’t go well.

* * *

 

_“Why don’t you visit me more often? You know where I am almost all the time.”_

_“It’s not a good idea to see me when I’m not like this.” Pitch huddled unnoticeably underneath the snow as it were a warm blanket, protecting him from the harsh outdoors._

_“Why not?”_

_“I… I’m not myself. It’s just not a good idea.”_

_“Well, if you’re sad or angry we could just talk.”_

_At this, Pitch inexplicably stood up. “It’s just not a good idea, okay?!” And then stormed off into the shadows of the cave they settled in that time._

 

* * *

 

Jack had spent the rest of the year wondering what had gone wrong, and why it was a bad idea to Pitch, his friend when they weren’t on the poles, covering themselves in snow as if it would cleanse them of their sins. He didn’t go travelling as often as he did (Just to see the children. He didn’t want to cause them harm) and when he did, he stole candy and hid it in a small cavern, sealed with ice so that nobody could reach it.

When Pitch came back the next year, he caught Jack off guard, who was expecting Pitch to arrive in another year… or five because of the way Jack had pushed him to attempt to get a selfish answer.

* * *

 

_“I’m so sorry Pitch! I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Here Jack gave Pitch a plate of some of his favorite candy along with some others, just in case. “Can you forgive me?” Maybe if Pitch didn’t then he would at least come back for the chocolate. They didn’t have to talk, but Jack had gotten used to being seen every other year, and it would be hard to lose something so big like that again._

_Pitch blinked at the offering given to him, grasping it in his gray-tinted slender hands. “I’m sorry for bursting out at you. I didn’t mean for my temper to get out of hand. Can you forgive me?” He looked sad, and tired and weary. It wasn’t a good look for a friend to have, especially addressing another friend._

_“If you can forgive me.”_

_“Of course.”_

* * *

 

They never talked about it again, and Jack decided not to worry about it. He did have other things on his mind as well, beyond the fights he had with his friend. He had learned several other interesting facts, never brought up them talking more and thought about a name.

After all, he still didn’t have a name that fit, didn’t he?

And it was about time to choose a name, now that he had a real friend to share it with.


	5. What's in a Name?

In the off-times when Jack’s friend wasn’t around, Jack sat around in the snow, listening to the Wind as it tried to bring ideas to his head. There were whispers of Michael and Daniel and others, but they were quickly dismissed for their affiliation to angels, which Jack Frost was most certainly not. Jack had never been and will never be an angel, and so perhaps Jack would be better picking a name that used to belong to a demon.

Alastair, Azazel, Vepar. They all didn’t fit. They were like shirts that were the wrong size, and there wasn’t even one that fit like the name ‘Jack’ like a sweater that fit but only felt uncomfortable. And then Jack found a box of books on the side of the road, top full of books, most of myths and legends and the others picture books worn on the pages and the spine, like they were read for a very long time, and loved tremendously.

Jack carefully brought them back to the cave he frequented and picked up one of them. A sliver of a memory slunk into his mind like a bad-behaving child that had snuck out after curfew. It reminded him of books, of reading, of there being too little of them, too short and certainly not in the font that they were in now. Jack struggled through a few paragraphs, picking up on a few new words (apparently something like academia had been added to the dictionary since Jack even picked up a book).

In the end Jack skimmed through the book, looking over the pages for a name, any name. None of them seemed to fit. And most of the words there didn’t even seem to be names. Jack put the book back into the box, carefully putting it to the side. He chose a different book from the pile and flipped it open to a random page, deciding that if it wasn’t on that page he’d flip through it super-quick but not bother much. And on that page was a name.

 

_Jokul_

 

It was under the sub-category for a myth surrounding his own false-name (Jack Frost) but Jokul seemed… seemed more… more him. And even in the book it had written that Jokul was more ice and winter versus Jack Frost’s wishes to remain on Earth to have fun. Jokul fit the demon better, because he didn’t want to be a demon but he was - like a force of nature couldn’t care about you, preventing you from knowing if there is thin ice…

“Jack” blinked, feeling as a if an eel of a bit of information slid into his mind, curling around a blackened area of his mind, to the left of his knowledge of the name “Jack Frost”. As if it surrounded who he used to be, what caused him to become the demon that he is now. “Jack” waited for a second, but nothing else came in.

So Jack continued. He didn’t want to be Jack anymore, which represented an idea as if he wanted to be in this misery of a place. He didn’t. And he didn’t want to hurt anyone with his powers even though it was inevitable no matter what he did. And Jokul represented that. But how could he change his name? Easy enough, tell the only person who said his name what his name would be changed to. But in his mind? How would he do that?

“My name is not Jack Frost as the moon had told me.” The sliver in his mind that had been the first to curl around his brain like an ill fitting sweater (it looked more silver and glowey than the rest of the slivers now that he thought about it) jerked back as if struck and seemed to be slowly dragged from his mind. It tried several times to stick to the demon’s mind for a bit but in the end sulked out on its own, looking like a child just told to go to its room, expecting to be allowed back to the rest of the house whenever the punishment ended.

“And I undertake the name of Jokul… Frosti.” At the very least what he could do for the creature that first gave him some information was to have his last name only partially changed. The name that he chose swirled around him, the Wind joining as an ice shard in his mind, making Jack smile as a warm feeling cascaded around him. Another ice shard joined that one and it was the snow and ice as it rose around his person, protecting the books and cocooning his body in a chrysalis of strong and cold. And yet Jack felt warm.

 

_Welcome, Herald of Winter. I am glad you have taken up your position._

 

When Jokul Frosti was released from his chrysalis he was a changed spirit. Gone was the juvenile clothing, replaced by the clothing of a noble. His staff was covered in ice, the point rigid and sharp. The wind now heeded his every command as if from a god or a king, following even the movements of his hands as he flexed them. He still didn’t have shoes, but now he could feel the snow, know how deep it was, how deep the ice was underneath it.

And then came the exhaustion. The wind carefully settled him in a snow bank and just as Jokul closed his eyes to drift off to sleep, he swore he saw a phantom image of a knight standing before his body, armor collecting on its phantom limbs.

 

 


	6. From the Beginning of the End

Time went by as it always went; slowly with occasional interesting moments interspersed that Jokul attempted to savor though they spun away too quickly as if caught by a faster force of nature than he. When Pitch had first visited him after he became the _Herald of Winter_ , he said he noticed something different about him but it was a strange difference. A good one. Jokul even felt like he was wearing extremely comfortable clothing, the softest cloth that swirled around his body and never tripped him up.

Pitch and he continued to be friends, connecting as much as they could. In the end, Jokul found himself standing before the moon, staring up at it with a cool gaze, as if interested in what it was after all these years. It had brought him to this hell, and though he could not leave it nor change his very nature, he could see the silver lining. It felt to him like he had become more than a demon. He became nature itself, the good and the bad. He couldn’t become more than that, mainly because of what he was… before. He didn’t really know what he had done that justified him being in this kind of hell. Even though he had a better grip on what was going on, Jokul was still lonely, in the kind of gripping cold that seemed to freeze around his heart.

There was still pain and hardship and Jokul knew that, saw how the ice he made caused cars to skid and lose control, saw how the snow he made killed some of the late blooming plants and caused for some ill-prepared creatures to die. But he saw the (however small) silver lining. There was peace. Less war (usually) and more play for the children who had enough food and warm clothing. And the plants slept. The creatures slept. Their bodies were given some time to simply rest and relax and the plants waited for the renewal of warmth. (And those that died looked like they were sleeping, though Jokul made sure to steer well away from them come spring.)

Jokul turned to walk along the telephone wires (what a curious invention. He had gotten used to it since such things happened gradually, but nonetheless) spreading the snow and ice and frost as he watched the people sleep. And then 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… the golden sand had arrived.

“Right on schedule, Sandman.”

He reached for the golden sand, spouting a few playful dolphins with his connection. Jokul smiled. It was nice, the playful creatures that didn’t care about anything but having fun. A happy emotion in a sea of darkness. It was a wonderful feeling.

And strange since Jokul knew that it had been getting darker and darker for the past few decades and he didn’t know what it was. The darkness was almost avoiding him for some reason. And Jokul didn’t know what it was.

Jokul shook his head. Then it didn’t have to matter. There was still a fear in the back of his head that if he didn’t do his job well, he’d have to go back to terrorizing the children when he didn’t want to, containing his magic when it didn’t want to be contained. He didn’t want to go back to that. So he did his job. And if that meant shaking off things that didn’t affect him on a personal level? So be it.

Something rushed past him. It was black, big, rustled the leaves on the tree next to him. Wind couldn’t tell him much, and it only crawled around his shoulders like armor in response to the thing. Jack held his staff in a better grip - the one Pitch taught him as soon as he remembered having learned it somewhere - and drifted to where the thing darted to. It was tall and dark… with two ears.

“Hello, mate.”

Wind soothed around his shoulders, going from angry knight to protective guard dog. At that, Jokul knew that he was to be trusted. Even though he’d only seen him a few times between staying away from children and spreading the winter, there was one slightly memorable moment when there was a late winter. Somewhere… somewhen… was it sometime in….

“Been a long time. Blizzard of ‘68 I believe? Easter Sunday?”

He seemed angry. Maybe a few placating words? Besides, if he had stayed that late, it must have been a long winter. He doesn’t usually create blizzards unless the magic in him wells up too much for him to do anything else.

“Must have been a long winter. I suppose I should apologize, but I simply cannot do so for a job that I do.” The rabbit looked confused at the answer, seemingly not expecting one like that. Jokul stood there for a few seconds, looking around before he decided that if that was all that the anthropomorphic rabbit wanted from him, he could just leave and get some of the northern parts of the world dusted a little.

Before Jokul even took a step, the rabbit seemed to regain his words.”But this is about something else.” He paused for a second, staring at Jokul, as if hoping to find out who he was. “Fellas…”

Suddenly Wind snarled and grew, whipping around Jokul’s form as his head whipped around for a tell-tale sign of anybody walking up to him. It was a dark area and small, but ice… ice would at least help the situation. Just as he thought that, his own magic spun from his staff and collided with the ground, seeking out for the one that wished to cause their master harm. It found none, but now there was ice streaking the ground, and if anyone wished to do anything to their master without his knowledge… well, he’d know immediately.

“Fellas?”

Jokul was frightened. Another encounter with another demon but this one seemed to want to sell him out. To some other creatures. Luckily they were afraid of him, but Jokul knew that if given the chance, an even stronger demon would appear. And annihilate him. Perhaps return him to the time where nobody could see him, touch him, speak with him… They would return him to his true hell, and he would not allow for that to happen.

Wind agreed with him and dashed him off to his safe haven, the Arctic, where a small cave was starting to pull itself together as a permanent home residence, where Pitch and Jokul could live. They had already started meeting each other there more often.

* * *

 

Bunny grumbled as he hopped out of his tunnel, followed by the arrival of the yeti he had traveled with to catch the trickster Jack Frost. As he joined his friends, he noticed the questioning looks on their faces and his anger spiked.

“The yeti were a bunch of chooks if I ever saw some! Saw the kid and refused to nab him!”

North frowned, finding that kind of odd. He turned to the yeti and asked them what it was that had frightened them about Jack Frost. At their response, he paled.

“He seems to be the Herald of Winter… and he is under the protection of Pitch himself.”


	7. Created From a Creature (and Not)

Wind eyes never closed as they are a power of nature, and nature never sleeps. It watched, unblinkingly, the horizon in all directions at once and watched it’s Herald so as his sleep would not be disturbed. Their Herald was peaceful in his sleep, clutching his pointed staff as if it were a lifeline to another world. They supposed it was, as only the seasons were made from humans, with human feelings and human thoughts. the rest of the forces of nature were the defendants of the seasons, or at least bowed to their whims. The Winds were of Winter, the Plants of Spring, The Dead Plants of Autumn and the Sunshine of Summer. They all overlapped a little, but that was how it was supposed to be. The seasons had a hand in everything around the world, even though they only gripped certain parts of the planet at certain points.

But, since the seasons were their magic, they could be killed. And as such, they had defenders. Wind was not the only defender of it’s Herald, there were a few minor ones, but most importantly of all, for each season there was a Spirit defender. The spirit did not bow to the seasons whims, but was also not constantly with the season. Instead, the spirit was the one that responded second if the season was in danger.

Wind shifted part of its consciousness to travel along to those that had attempted to take their Herald from them. They were fighting. They were fighting about… about how their Herald’s spirit defender was the Spirit of Fear? Why would that be a problem? It had been that way for centuries, for millennia, for several iterations of their Herald, as their Herald’s powers could often protect their Herald well enough. Their Herald would stabilize the Spirit of Fear and the Spirit of Fear would protect the Herald of Winter. That was the way it was always done. Why fight about it?

Ah. Right. Wind forgets that some spirits are much newer than they are, much less used to this kind of protection system built up for the seasons. However, Wind listens on, as angered spirits, no matter how young, can be a problem.

And a few moments in, they are rewarded for their patience. They are worried for their Herald, as they know that he is a season, but they are too young to understand the way Spirit Defenders work. And as such, they are trying to “save” their Herald by… making sure that the Spirit Defender could never reach him?!

Wind bristles in anger and makes sure that a sliver of themself is near the Spirit Defender, in case their Herald would need to rationalize with these naive creatures. And these creatures would not listen to the oldest of them, Star, who is much older and wiser and knows much more… though is also cut off by his incapability to produce sound. And while he can read and can understand the concept of writing, it is his magic that is unable to create words because they are not abstract and he is an abstract creature.

And Easter, while old, shut himself off from the rest of the world until just about now, and had never bothered with the other spirits unless they bothered his singular day of glory. Easter knew and knows  nothing of the seasons and their defenders. He is wallowing too deep in his misery when others could help him rise from the muck of guilt and tears. Wind knows. They have helped their Herald meet his Defender and the two have grown together past the guilt that their Herald originally had for things that he could not control.

Memory is too busy to learn, often forgoing sleep to do her work, and while Wind can appreciate her diligence, she is not a creature made for her work. She was made of a creature that once needed sleep, food, drink and joy from many other sources. She is depriving herself of the things her original model of a Sister of Flight needs. And because of this she is not learning of the world around her, only the small bubble that she believes is the truth.

And Wonder is too young. He had been made of a human into a role created by humans for humans. And he is still stabilizing his work, growing and learning. Wind thinks he compares to a human baby, learning about his world while having been in a sheltered version of it for some time. So him, Wind cannot blame for not knowing. The rest they cannot also blame, for things cannot be put on people about their thoughts.

It is only one’s actions that can be put down on somebody. What they were thinking is a completely grey area, as is what happens after someone’s action. An example would be if a child convinces another child to throw a pine cone into a tree. The child does, and he can be held accountable for throwing it. But if the pine cone hits another pine cone and keeps going on its altered path while the one that got hit falls and hits another child in the head?

Whose fault is it then? The child who told told the other to throw the pine cone or the one who threw it?

Wind understands that in a perfect world, it would be the first child’s fault. However it isn’t a perfect world, so the humans would blame the child who threw the pine cone, not the other one.

As such, the only thing they can do as the “Guardians” ready their battle gear to go against their believed enemy , Fear, all Wind can do is take a deep breath into their non-existent lungs and sigh out of non-existent pair of lips. Then look away and send a simple message to the Fearling part of Fear. That half would be more rational and fight to be with their Herald, so that they could protect him so that their human host would not distress any more than he is now.

Wind looks in all directions at once, all over the world, and decides, once again, that human thoughts and feelings must be both most annoying to possess and also most useful. Wind shakes their non-existent head to get rid of the distraction and keeps defending their Herald. They can drift off a little while he’s awake, so that he would be able to protect himself without them.


	8. Black Inky Fear

Pitch, the Nightmare King, shifted on his throne of black and sighed at the childishness of those foolish, mortal, “Guardians”. True, they had some purpose, but fear was a necessity. What other force would tell them not to go into the dark forest, or not to run in front of a speeding car? And what other force would be capable of protecting such a temperamental season as Winter? He had received the message from the Wind, but could think of no answer for what was going on. He didn’t want the season not to have friends, courtesy of his human host not cooperating with him then (though that wouldn’t hinder him much, just annoy him, and as a creature that destroyed all things that truly annoyed him? Better to keep his host content in his situation), but he also didn’t want for Winter to join the “Guardians” that guarded nothing but childish foolishness.

His consciousness strode inside of him, where there were rows upon rows of memories and knowledge and other things. His host’s consciousness usually stayed near the few memories Pitch had decided to keep him agreeable to keeping his body, if only to appease the greater spirit. Pitch might also add that he decided that names were unimportant. Pitch was enough for the both of them, and anyone deemed good enough to be a friend would certainly be able to understand the difference between the two. He should have his host explain it to Winter sooner or later.

The request gained legs and walked itself toward the white-cloaked host. He would have been gold, but the Sandman was gold, and Pitch didn’t want to confuse the two when he decided Sandman could visit. He saw his host first reach for his gleaming silver scythe and then drop his hold on it to reach for the message. The scythe was harmless in this consciousness-world, but Pitch had decided to allow the former general to keep up with his strengths with the special kind of blade. Otherwise, he might become more depressed and die, and Pitch was a creature of fear, and while he could keep a body alive forever with his magic, if the soul died, Pitch would be inhabiting a dead body and he had some morals, darn it!

His host held the message before pinning it up on a black corkboard. He then turned to Pitch and nodded. Then headed to the library for his own research. Pitch would have sighed if he wasn’t already used to it. His host had the strange wish of wanting to find out things on his own, rather than have the knowledge sent immediately to him. He had actually told Pitch that he would rather read one of his conscious-books rather than speak to conscious-him.

It hurt a bit, but it wasn’t as bad as any of Pitch’s previous hosts. There was one addicted to their species’ version of sex and another which would keep incessantly babbling at him before Pitch strangled him with his own hands. He was the only one Pitch really wanted dead. Everyone else was okay, they just got too tired.

And, truth be told, while Pitch wanted to win this war so that he could be launched back into space and the cold and the lovely, lovely, permeable _fear_ that laid there, he had grown attached to the Herald of Winter and wouldn’t mind visiting him for no other reason that just to visit. Though if anyone asked, he would both thoroughly deny and kill them. With fear. Or just the nightmares. Or something. He’ll think about it.

And if Winter was in trouble, then he’d protect him. Because Winter and Cold are the same person, neutral forces that exist everywhere in certain doses. It would be a shame if something greater than him were to kill him, because then Pitch would have to adapt and maybe find another host, and that was all just an enormous hassle, couldn’t everyone just surrender to him, that would make everything so much easier and Pitch could just lift off on the power of fear and destroy a few key planets that really annoyed him and recruit the dream pirates to get even more fear…

Ahem.

Sorry about that.

Making sure that his host was still in Pitch’s library (knowledge) he then pulled out of his own consciousness and returned to his throne room, where a few baby nightmares had stumbled out and were looking around in… it wasn’t wonder, but a sense of not knowing as much as the elder nightmares, but so much more than anyone else. They weren’t fully coordinated yet, still absorbing waves upon waves of knowledge that the elder nightmares, the ones that decided to dedicate their lives for more knowledge, emitted from the silky-sand-nothingness that made them up.

By the next night, they would be simply smaller nightmares, same knowledge, same creatures, same capability, only smaller and slightly less durable. Pitch rose from his seat, grinning widely as the nightmares in the room immediately set themselves into formation, and walked out of the room, pointedly ignoring the brightly twinkling rusted metal globe standing on its pedestal behind the throne itself. It tasted like failure. 


	9. Humanity

“What have ya done to Jack?”

“Why is your protection on him?”

“Remove it off of him immediately!”

The symbols of a slightly darkened shield, and then an x.

The wind becomes a solid, beating thing and a human (with a good imagination) would even be able to see wings of action and air and movement as it screeched as if enraged at the pitiful creatures before it. To say that a Spirit Defender was not needed was saying a Spirit Defender could not defend their charge, but a human wouldn’t know that.

A human would see gust of air that kicked up snow and ice and anything it needed before seemingly another power joined it to add in more snow ice and bone-biting cold, and behind it, shadows that seemed to grow and rise and multiply before charging ahead of the cold and wind. At the shadows, they would think they didn’t sleep enough the night before and maybe they’d get to sleep in the next day because of the potential blizzard. But first they’d need to finish up the reports.

And then, past the cold, in the middle of December, they would spot a small shimmer of light. They’d think it was a trick of the eye, they should really finish up and go home, they’re too tired to do this. Pick up the pen again, look at the monitor, back at the paper, back out the window…

Where they saw a flash of bright color on a dreary night, akin to a hummingbird, but magnified by a hundred thousand. That’s probably the start of a hallucination, they think - even though a small childish thought scurries by with a ‘maybe it was a fairy’ but they’re an adult and they know fairies don’t exist. The unfinished report in front of them does, though, and so does the paycheck at the end of the month. However, they remind themselves, the bonus is only potentially there as long as the report remains unfinished.

Numbers are scrawled across paper with the black pen, as more numbers are calculated, set up and examined at the blink of an eye on the computer. But the eyes that are meant to be paying attention draw themselves back to the window, the traitorous window behind which they can see the rage the wind is exuding, trash whirling upwards like Peter Pan and snow falling down, first like fairy dust and then like tears and then like swords.

“Gonna be a tough night, isn’t it?” The boss drops in like a fly, unneeded and unnecessary, but very hard to get rid of without making a mess.

“I suppose so, sir. Heard it might get worse.” The boss nods silently, staring out into the grey abyss, with small pinpricks of light that light up a gray coated road to blandness.

“You can go home, I’ll finish up the reports. Go home to your wife. She’s pregnant, right?” Without waiting for a response - he knows he’s correct - he continues, “You’ll still be getting that bonus. You’re a good man. Go home. Get warm. Have a good night.” The coat finds its way on shoulders and scarf around their neck. The bag is picked up and phone stuck in a pocket.

“Good night, sir.” And out into the cold, to the street below the traitorous window that provided the hallucinations. The collar got pulled up against the wind and hat pulled out of a pocket and tugged over freezing ears.

And then they stopped. There was a flower a few steps before them. A single footstep and a boot would have crushed the dainty daffodil that had taken root in the concrete paving. A slow blink and it was gone, leaving behind a small circle in the snow as its only evidence, but even that was disappearing. The eyes that blinked looked around once. And then twice, but in the end huddled in closer and walked on to where they would get on a bus and then arrive home to their anticipating wife.

If the office worker believed, if they had looked back, they would have seen the battle between the naive and knowledgeable, the young and the old, the attacker and the defenders.

The Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, The Tooth Fairy and The Sandman fighting The Boogieman and the representation of Winter itself.

What a fight.

The light, the color, the dark. The only part they could notice is Wind howling around and the cold that it carried. But if they believed, like the child staying up way too late across the street, they would see the “Big Four” fight Winter and Fear.

How unfortunate that the adult humans could not witness it.


	10. Logic and Belief

Jokul believed himself to be a demon when he first rose from the ice. All the evidence pointed to that. But now… now he was neutral and it did not matter what his opinions were, it simply mattered what actions he took, and to make sure that each of his decisions were based purely on knowledge, need and logic. When he was with his friend, he could let loose and converse freely, decide what he wished.

And in the middle of a city, as he was producing a much deserved blizzard, he saw Pitch. Black, smoky, standing stoically against the wind.

“Pitch!”

And everything broke loose. Portals opened, whereupon naive and gullible elves - so far gone from what they were originally made to be - streamed toward Pitch with torches and trumpets, cookies and string lights. And then the Big Four came. They came in battle ready, paint eggs and swords and whips at hand.

They surrounded Pitch and Jokul could feel Wind turning to protect Pitch like a machine that didn’t like how something was acting, but Jokul was thinking, watching as how the longer Pitch fought, the darker his face became, the longer and more menacing his shadow, how unlike his friend that was. That wasn’t his friend at the moment! But it still was, it was the creature that protected him because it had no other choice, because his friend was a part of him…

Jokul understood. The world stood before him, the universe aligned, his magic crackled under his skin. He understood! He knew where he came from and where he was going, and yet he knew neither. He was meant to be human and not, alive and not, neutral and not. But damn it, Jokul would not stand by as his friend was  _ bullied _ by the very people meant to preserve wonder and dreams and memories!

Wind appeared before him in a transparent form, and he knew that Wind agreed with him, because Winter was necessary, but Fear prevented too many from dying. Fear made people stop from driving in icy weather, Fear prevented children from going too far and potentially getting lost, Fear made parents leave during a blizzard to find their children, Fear kept people alive and walking even when they thought all hope was lost.

And in return, Winter would help Fear when he could not help himself. Two powerful creatures did not need to be protected but helped, and often such power is shunned and discarded. Hated.

“HOW DARE YOU HARM MY FRIEND!” Ice crackled across bricks and pavement and windowsills, striking snow against shivering pedestrians, collateral, but sad, even though Fear was pushing them away, urging them to go home from fear of the blizzard.

“Mate, don’t you want to be believed in? Not feared by the planet?”

“I am Winter. To not fear me would be a mistake. I am neither good nor bad but fear is essential to keep from being bad. Leave me and my friend now, you traitors of your own cause!” He turned to the man of sand. “Can you not see his dreams, his true wishes? The man inside the fear, the one that loves hot chocolate, that dreams of peace and sleep and happiness?” At the shake of the man’s tiny head, Jokul grew more enraged. “If you cannot see him, you are growing senile, fallen star. Go back to your people and perhaps learn again what it means to dream!” But he did not send him back, for that was the star’s decision. The others were still fighting. Sand glared at Jokul, glared to the very core, in a way that said ‘how do you know what it means to dream?’

“Please, Jack, please, come with us! We don’t need to fight each other!”

“No, we don’t.” The Sister of Flight was relieved at that. “But you are fighting my friend, and if I had to chose between strangers and a friend, I would choose my friend!”

Knowledge continued pumping into his mind and body, overflowing his starving mind, drowning and reviving him. He knows, he knows, he knows. And then is enraged. Wind responds to his anger with its own, curling around him and striking out at all. Fear, instead, soothes him, like a friend after a horrible mess.

What he is most angered about is that these children had not reached their intellectual potential and yet acted as if they had. The Pooka, the one that came from another planet and kickstarted life only knew a few planets and constellations, The Star had only watched Earth unlike his otherworldly peers - which watched all - and Sister of Flight and the Bandit are not even a hundredth of their peer’s age.

And as he thought about their actions and what their future actions might entail, he became afraid. Afraid for them, and what other spirit, perhaps much more temperamental than he, less understanding… but the fight kept raging on, Jokul’s fear fueling Pitch’s actions, and Pitch’s actions fueling the “Big Four’s” reactions. It was circular, and while Jokul wished for them to cease their attacks on one another, there was no way of doing so without causing a future attack to happen with the same naivety that the four expressed.

But in the end, there was no other way to break up the fight.

Belief would not heed to logic, and logic would not heed to belief, and so each would attack the other. There is a way of following both, but neither would work with the other unless for a specific goal.

And so, with a heavy heart, Jokul ordered Wind to send the two apart, causing a blizzard to finally break amidst the city, and fled into the night. 

He knew that they would fight again another day, but at least next time he’d know what to do. Turning around, he asked wind to send Pitch a message -  _ meet up where we usually do? _  - and then lifted up on Wind’s reassuring shoulders to careen through the sky. His newfound knowledge told him that he was an elemental spirit, but he also knew that that knowledge made no impact on his original belief that he was a demon.

He was still a neutral soul, and Jokul reveled in sitting on fences. They provided excellent viewpoints of anything.


End file.
